


Cat Out of the Bag

by Dat_Fandom_Losertown



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Because I have never been to Detroit and can't write that setting, Can we discuss how "Connor has a Penis/Vagina" are actual tags?, Cole Anderson is probably dead, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Everyone lives in Virginia, Fluff and Angst, How Do I Tag, I understand why but I still find it funny, Kara is Badass, M/M, Neko-Jin, Non-Graphic Violence, Pinch of PTSD, Probably won't be smut, Sorry heheh..., Splash of anxiety, We love Grumpy Hank almost as much as Protective Hank, anyway, but we'll see
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-29
Updated: 2019-08-15
Packaged: 2020-03-29 09:21:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 17,838
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19017016
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dat_Fandom_Losertown/pseuds/Dat_Fandom_Losertown
Summary: “I ain’t some starvin’, twink cat that you can just bring home and teach how to trust and love or whatever the fuck else books try to say. Hell, I’m not even a Persian or Maine Coon cat with those bushy, pale tails like people always love to give us bears. I’m just an old, fat calico.”“I personally don’t agree with the stereotypes as well. But like I offered before, you’re always welcome to leave. The front door is right there, I’m not keeping you trapped here. If you wanted to stay, though, I can make you breakfast? You can watch me make your breakfast, or you can make it yourself if you want.”ORConnor plays into every stereotype ever when he runs into an injured nekojin and brings him home, and Hank is a grumpy, skeptical bastard who quickly grows protective over everyone's favourite boy.





	1. Prologue and The Encounter

    Growing up, Connor was always stuck in the worlds he fabricated in his mind, and he wasn’t ashamed of it like his family tried to tell him to be. Even when he would introduce himself to people since middle school, he would always say his name then state that he had an uncontrollably active imagination, and if they ever are speaking to him and he doesn’t appear to be actively listening that they should try to not be offended. He just simply found inspiration and was committing whatever it was to memory to come back to later, or has laid out a simple plot to follow along later. He really meant no harm or disrespect to them.

    Let’s just say that, among the school’s nerds, jocks, or other cliques, “Crazy Connor” did not fit into any social group, and regularly gained more bullies than friends. He never minded too much, though. He always lived vicariously through his character’s lives which he created, and they always had plenty of friends and allies they could turn to when in trouble. That’s all he needed, or at least, that’s what he always convinced himself so he wouldn’t become swallowed by loneliness.

    By his first year in high school, he wrote an entire book, and by the end of his first year, he wrote another, longer one. For his second year in high school, he was “gently persuaded” into taking an art class for whatever reason the school offered (he wasn’t listening on purpose that time), and he discovered he had a natural gift in the subject. With the encouragement of his art teacher and his one and only friend, Markus, he started posting his artworks on a blog he created just for this purpose, that way he didn’t flood his normal social medias with the unusual content. Soon after, he bought himself the equipment to start doing digital art and quickly switched to that for any piece that wasn’t a graded assignment.

    By the end of Connor’s second year, an online social media influencer found the one fanart of them he made– and his blog and all of his other works by extension– by pure chance. After some talking and interactions, they asked if they could commission him to do a small line of t-shirt merch designs. Of course, Connor said yes. They loved it, and so did the customers and fans who looked at and bought the t-shirts. He still knows to this day that he is more than extremely lucky to have had this chance.

    After designing the merch, his art blog started gaining more attention, and by christmas break of his third year in high school, he was making more money each month than any student he knew with a job. He got donations from very generous people just for sharing his art and little comic scenes, and he regularly got commissions from people, and was even asked to create pin and more t-shirt designs for that same online influencer. Connor never gave up writing, however, he simply never posted it anywhere public. Although, as soon as he turned 18 early in his Senior year, he immediately self-published the first book he wrote after doing some heavy editing (it was an actual cringefest trying to read through it), and made it well known on his blog that more were coming in the somewhat-near future.

    It didn’t do too well, to say the least. A world where nekojins and inujins don’t exist, especially for the sake of not making certain things in the plot happen conveniently and provide crude or perverted humor? It doesn’t fly for most people. He didn’t give up, though, of course not. He expected this book to not do well at all, so he wasn’t put off in the slightest. He self-published his next book during his final new year’s break of high school, which ended up doing much better than his first, considering it was a fantasy adventure genre and had a nekojin as one of the main characters. Looking back on it now, this is probably where his career in writing first started.

* * *

 

    Up until this point, Connor was convinced he’d be stuck at a nine-to-five office job for his entire life, since he couldn’t see himself doing what he loved due to the lack of publisher and author connections and, as much as he loves art, that’s not where his true passion lies. He knew that he’d eventually get burnt out if it were his job and only source of income. Although, he also couldn’t imagine doing something he actively disliked because he would rather rip his hair out than be an accountant or anything of the sort like what his family wanted. However, this second book made him realise that it could be possible to do what he wanted full time.

    As Connor very soon found out, nekojins and inujins weren’t popularly a main character in books or any media for that matter, and if they were, the book almost always had a forbidden love type of plot or the partial-human was a slave of some sort of one of the other main characters. The fact that Connor, a high schooler, wrote a book with a kick-ass nekojin who gives no fucks and takes no shits as a main character with a pure human lover/sidekick was decidedly open minded and extremely controversial.

    At one point, an encounter with a reporter brought up the question of how he found the courage to make such a bold statement. Connor felt somewhat guilty when he admitted that this story idea had just been in his head for so long and it just had a bad-ass nekojin as the main character. He put no thought into what people would think about it or what kind of statement it could possibly give. It’s just what the story always was, so he made it how it is. Simple as that.

    And apparently that was an open minded answer. The fact that he hadn’t even thought about what the public might think and didn’t care whatsoever that the main character was a nekojin proved that in his head was a world that easily existed where partial humans and pure humans lived in perfect equality. The writers of those articles weren’t exactly wrong, but Connor still didn’t like how every single one of his artworks and writing pieces were soon heavily criticized and people looked far more into them than even Connor himself thought was possible. It was almost intriguing how people could pull such in-depth ideas and conspiracies from works that were made simply because he thought “Oh, this kind of pose looks cool for this character” and “Wow, these colors look cool with it so we’ll smash them together like this” and “Ta Da! I did it! I made a thing! Look guys!”.

    By the time he graduated, he was in the midst of self-publishing a third book that Connor carefully picked because the story line didn’t have anything blatantly controversial in it. His fourth or fifth ones didn’t have anything especially attention-grabbing in them either. Although, that’s just how he planned them in his head. Yes, he did have other titles deemed more risky and controversial, but he didn’t release them only because he didn’t want that kind of attention on him again yet. Eventually, all the controversy surrounding Connor had died down once people began realising that such a large statement from him was likely going to be a one time deal. All that was left behind from the ordeal was a sudden spike in interest and income from the people who found his work because of the fuss.

    Yes, he hated that partial human slavery still existed, and no, he never planned on getting one of his own and helping the economy of those types of businesses, but he couldn’t gather the bravery needed to make any grand statements on his blog and march along with the groups of people trying to make things equal. He had morals and human decency, but they apparently didn’t run deep enough to make him less terrified of the mass of negative attention he once faced, so he supported the protesters in spirit for doing what he can’t with minor guilt.

    He still feels that way even now at 32 years old. He’s lucky enough to no longer be a starving artist, and he moved out of Markus’ and Simon’s shared apartment to live on his own a couple years ago. He still mainly does digital pieces when creating art, but he took inspiration from Markus and his father and started using different types of traditional medias again. Although, somewhere down the line, art stopped being the larger source of his income, and started being extra cash he put into savings and funding for larger luxury items– such as trips across America for more experiences that he could use in his art and books.

    He no longer has to self-publish anymore, yet he still occasionally does under an alias when his agent, a good friend of his by the name Luther, wants him to change too many aspects of a book to make it more commercialized. He has told Connor in the past that he comes up with other manuscripts to pitch quickly compared to the other writers he works with, so he doesn’t worry too often about Connor self-publishing something he didn’t accept. He understands that, to Connor, these aren’t just books, these are tiny pieces of himself in written form. Though, Luther always goes into detail about what parts he doesn’t like and why because there are times where Connor decides that the world in his head would be made better with the changes Luther wanted.

    Connor is currently heading home after one of said moments. He just got done with a meeting to pitch his next potential book, and Luther had suggested that he change the time travel portion in it to make it a trilogy and expand on some character’s backstory and development. Connor, not understanding why he hadn’t written a series of any kind yet, since most of his books are rather long, quickly and happily agreed to go home and edit large chunks of it to make it work.

    He wonders if he can somehow convince Luther or the publishing company to hold off on publishing the books until all three are completed. Connor hates waiting months for sequels and much prefers having all of the books in a series so he can binge them, and he knows that he’s far from the only one who feels this way. They probably won’t stall until all 3 books are fully completed, though. He’ll just have to somehow work quicker than usual without getting burnt out, or pitch a different book from his list of ideas to work on in the meantime.

    Connor blinks out of his head to pause and take in the scenery around him. Connor’s lucky to live in a more suburban area. He’s always been an extremely light sleeper, so he could never get much rest when he lived in the city with his family. The nearest area like that is just far enough away that the only evidence of it being there are the skyscrapers in the distance and the fact there are precisely 14 stars on a clear night sky, and on the nights that aren’t clear, the clouds over the downtown area have an enchanting glow to them.

    In the area Connor lives in now, most of the roads are all one lane per direction, with the exception of the main roads with the stores and sloppy grids of traffic lights. This is where Connor is right now, walking along the strangely empty sidewalk. He lives in one of the apartment buildings in the area, and the rumble of cars and occasional shrieks of emergency vehicles are enough to make him want to move back to Markus’ quieter area, despite there still being five more months left on his two-year lease. Looking off to the side where his apartment building should be, Connor decides that he should start hunting for other apartments if he really wants to move somewhere else.

    Connor pulls out his phone to take a picture of the serene scene he’s just been greeted by. The setting sun casting the sky in a brilliantly beautiful gradient of rich orange and gold. He has to shove the small sense of guilt away for thinking something that air pollution has caused is gorgeous, because that’s exactly what it is. The small trees that are planted in the middle of the wide sidewalk on the other side of the road look like a black void is trying to rip and glitch its way into swallowing the sky whole, yet is always coming up short. The road he walks along is empty for now due to the traffic light glowing red behind him, which gives him a chance to get an unobscured picture.

    This is the perfect scene to paint back at home. Maybe it’s just the thing to finally get him out of his art block.

    Connor quickly snaps several pictures at varying levels of brightness and contrast before the light turns green. He quickly puts his phone away and continues on his way home. Honestly, Connor should have taken an Uber or something instead of walking, but he isn’t regretting it quite yet. He probably will in a few minutes, though, when the only light will be from the moon and the occasional street light. He supposes he can always call an Uber now, but he’s currently only a fifteen minute walk away from his apartment complex if he doesn’t take the shortcut through the trees, closer to ten minutes if he does.

    Besides, the air is nice and cool for once, if not a bit on the humid side– but that’s just what happens when you live along the east coast, you get non-stop humid air. On top of the air being nice, Connor really needs to get more of it from outside, rather than the stale air inside. The last time he left his apartment (besides hopping into his car for grocery, work, or mail related journeys) was probably a little under a year ago, maybe a little over. Sure, once in a while he’ll open his windows, but that isn’t the same as being outside, feeling the sun on his skin and slight breeze in his hair.

    Huh, that could make a cool land in his series. A place where no matter where a person stands within the small civilization, there is always wind to be felt. They could remain protected and unspotted with the use of a force field of sorts that spreads itself over the town. Maybe that could be because they are a true neutral civilization and don’t want any part in the war–

    A thud of something hitting metal immediately followed by a quiet groan of pain interrupts Connor’s wandering train of thought. He probably wouldn’t have even heard it if he hadn’t retained his habit of somehow being alert to his surroundings while zoned out from back when he was in school. He doesn’t even know where the painful sounds came from, but that doesn’t matter because he wouldn’t just jump in to other people’s problems. What if there isn’t anything happening at all and that was just someone who tripped and fell?

    So he checks the time (for evidence purposes, just in case) and keeps walking straight, hyper aware of every little movement and sound around him, yet never turning his head. That is, until he jumps at the abrupt sound of sharp laughter coming from behind the boutique that’s closed for the night.

    “The fucker’s weak and already passing out! Who would’ve guessed! Ha!” a nasally voice taunts. Connor freezes against both his will and better judgement.

    “Should we call some place to pick ‘im up? We could get some extra cash?” a woman asks.

    “Hell no!” a masculine voice shouts, “Who the hell do you think would want an old, fat neko like him, anyway. We’d be doing everyone a favor by just killing it.”

    That gets Connor moving silently into the narrow alley towards the voices. He may be socially awkward and loathe conflict, but he grew up training in different types of combat and self-defense. If someone’s life is in danger, he  _damn sure_  will fight, and as long as none of these people have a gun, he will win.

    “Uh, I didn’t fuckin’ sign up for murder.” the nasally voice says uneasily, “I just wanted to go out and have a good time.”

    “Ugh, it’s not like we’d get caught. And even if we did for some reason, we would get a slap on the wrist at most.”

    “Are you actually that fuckin’ stupid, Damien?” the woman snaps. “If we kill him, that will be seen as worse than killing an animal. Even I’m not stupid enough to think that we’d get away with something that in a place out in the open like this. Someone’s gonna have to take out trash, and evidence of us being here is everywhere.”

    Connor finally lets himself fall still, ceasing his silent shuffling towards the corner. He presses against the wall in hopes to lower the chances of being spotted, and promptly rests his back on something sticky. He jumps forward just slightly, but not enough to be seen.

    “What was that?” the first guy asks.

    But is apparently loud enough to be heard.

    Connor braces himself for a fight, tensing up and getting into position–

    “Dude, you’re being paranoid. Let’s just get the fuck out of here. I’m bored, anyway, and getting eaten alive by mosquitoes.” The supposed ringleader persuades, his boots thumping on the concrete as he walks away. Connor lets himself relax, thankful that nothing more is going to happen for now.

    “Same. C’mon.” The woman starts following him if the sound of clacking heels is anything to go by.

    There’s a relieved sigh, then one last set of footsteps walking away. Luckily, based off of the sounds of scuffling and skateboards from around the corner, there’s another way to get in and out of that place besides the one Connor is hiding in. He stays completely still and silent for several minutes after they’re gone, just to make sure they won’t come back. When he finally feels that it’s safe enough to look at the time on his phone, only twelve minutes have passed since he last checked it.

    Taking a deep breath, he moves himself out of his hiding place. He spots the large nekojin laying against a dumpster in the alley and can immediately tell that the 911 emergency responders won’t do much, if anything, for him because there’s no collar around his neck and no obvious lethal wounds. The poor guy’s got blood in his hair, which is grey with age, and there’s a bit of blood on the ground and dumpster where he was presumably knocked down. His wrist is also zip tied to the back handle of the dumpster, so his arm is raised high above his head and Connor can see where the zip tie is digging into his skin. He watches as the man takes a small breath with a small sigh of relief.

    That seems to make something in Connor click, because he’s suddenly dropping to his knees to check for any less obvious injuries. First thing’s first, Connor removes the zip tie from the man’s wrist by jamming his fingernail between the latch and tail slowly undoing the loop. He carefully puts the man’s arm down by his side. Connor only knows so much about first aid and injuries from past, admittedly extensive research for his books and comic scenes, but he does remember how to spot the signs of various broken bones. He also knows that won’t be enough to make sure he’s actually okay.

    Therefore, he yanks his phone out of his pocket and texts his friend, Kara, who is some kind of doctor, hoping that she’ll be kind enough to come and look this guy over herself. It’s not like Connor wouldn’t pay her for her expertise, after all.

 

         **Connor Child**   _Today at 19:28 (7:28)_

Hey, are you busy right now?

 

   Connor doesn’t even have time to repocket his phone before it vibrates in his hand. She mustn't be busy, if she responded so quickly.

 

         **Best Mom Friend**   _Today at 19:28 (7:28)_

i’m free. what’s up

         **Connor Child**   _Today at 19:29 (7:29)_

You know how you’re a doctor? Are you, like, a general doctor, or are you specialized in something? And is there a difference between pure and partial humans medically/biologically?

         **Best Mom Friend**   _Today at 19:30 (7:30)_

We’ll call it a general one. and no there aren’t major differences besides the tail and ears and heightened senses and all that jazz.

weren’t you just with luther? what happened?

         **Connor Child**   _Today at 19:20 (7:30)_

I was, but I found an injured Nekojin that was beat up by these three assholes while walking home. It doesn’t look life threatening, but I’m not a doctor and I also have no way of getting him to my place.

 

    When Kara doesn’t respond immediately, Connor carefully lifts up the large man’s shirt, carefully avoiding touching his white, tan, and black blotched tail that’s draped protectively across his chest before he passed out. He notes that there’s a lot of bruising, which could mean a few things, some worse than others. He’s taking even breaths instead of short, sporadic ones, though, which could be a good sign. After checking a few other things tenderly and carefully, Connor decides that it’s probably okay to carefully lay the stranger down so he can check his back.

    It’s immediately apparent that they jumped him from behind. The entire back of his shirt has blood all over it, and some blood on the wall and dumpster where he was leaned against them. After a solid twenty seconds of processing what he’s seeing and choosing what to do about this first, Connor finally forces himself to tenderly lift the back of his shirt up. He notices that none of the cuts should be deep enough to do any lasting damage beyond scars. He doesn’t even think blood loss should be a problem, since the blood wasn’t even visible for the most part until he was rolled over. That doesn’t account for any possible internal bleeding though, and for the fact that Connor  _still isn’t a doctor_.

    At that thought, Kara finally messages back with perfect timing.

 

         **Best Mom Friend**   _Today at 19:34 (7:34)_

first of all, where are you?

second of all, you shouldn’t bring strangers into your home.

third of all, you should take him to a hospital anyway.

 

    Connor cringes at his phone at the last suggestion, then begins typing.

 

         **Connor Child**   _Today at 19:35 (7:35)_

We both know he won’t get proper care at a hospital, especially since he doesn’t appear to have a collar or a way of contacting someone who will pay off the debt for the stay. Also, I’ve already thought about every other option besides bringing him to a hospital and they all end with him getting abandoned and/or hurt again out here. I don’t wanna leave him like that.

 

   It’s then that Connor realizes that he likely has most of the things needed to take care of these types of injuries at home in his jumbo first aid kit. Markus bought it for him on his birthday as a jab at how clumsy he is, but it’s come in handy multiple times since then and none of his friends let it die.

 

         **Connor Child**   _Today at 19:36 (7:36)_

Besides, I think I have everything needed to clean him up at my apartment, I’m just not sure about any internal injuries or how to move him.

 

    Oh god damn it, apparently Connor’s going to be one of the dumbasses who brings injured strangers back home. He can’t just leave him out here and he can’t trust anyone else in this area– state, even– to not abuse this guy as soon as Connor is out of sight, though. He gently feels around the stranger’s head, carefully avoiding his tan and black ears, for any obvious injuries as he works things out in his head.

    Maybe he can call Markus to come over to help keep watch just in case? No, he and Simon are out in New York on vacation until Monday, and today’s Thursday. He can’t ask Carl or Luther to come over, since Carl is old and wheelchair bound and, as well as Luther can act and despite his massive size, he does much worse with conflict than Connor does. He’d be on edge from being around a wild card for the night, then stressed for days after. Connor knows Kara would come help him out, but she doesn’t get enough sleep as it is, with the weird hospital hours and helping with taking care of Alice. She doesn’t need to be more involved in this than she already is, anyways.

    This is either going to end surprisingly well or very badly, and Connor has a feeling of which it’s going to be. That is decidedly  _not_  a good sign, but Connor elects to ignore it anyway.

    Connor finds a rather large knot on the right side of the man’s head where the majority of the blood in his hair is, which is probably the same injury that pretty much knocked him out in the first place. He doesn’t even know if there’s a way to check for concussions when the person is unconscious.

    His phone finally pings an alert for a new message.

 

         **Best Mom Friend**   _Today at 19:37 (7:37)_

fine, you win. tell me where you are and i’ll bring you guys to your place. who’s staying with you, cause it isn’t going to be me or luther.

         **Connor Child**   _Today at 19:37 (7:37)_

Thank you so much!! I’m at the boutique near my apartment complex! And I have a friend that I’m going to message!

You’re the best!!

 

    Connor rolls the stranger into what he hopes is a more comfortable position, then finds a place where he’ll be able to watch the parallel parking lanes in front of the boutique and the unconscious nekojin at the same time. His phone chimes again, and he doesn’t bother opening it for the simple three letter in the message notification.

 

         **Best Mom Friend**   _Today at 19:41 (7:41)_

Omw

 

    With that taken care of, all there is left to do is wait for Kara. He moves and sits down in his spot, and just a bit over ten minutes later, she pulls up. Connor glances back at the old stranger, making sure he won’t die or something in his absence, then quickly steps out of the alley so Kara will see him. She does and parks her blue SUV in the spot closest to where Connor is waiting.

    “Kara! You’re a lifesaver, really!” he calls after Kara steps out of her car.

    “I know, I know,” She shuts the door behind her, “Where’s the guy?”

    “He’s back here. I didn’t want to move him too much.”

    She nods in approval and silently follows him to the old nekojin, then starts looking over his wounds. She decides that the cuts on his back aren’t as bad as they could be and the bleeding has already slowed down a bit. At her request, Connor retells everything he knows. After a few more minutes of checking, she states that the stranger no doubt has a concussion and will need plenty of rest and another check up once he’s awake. Thankfully, she doesn’t think his wrist is dislocated or fractured or anything, and his ribs seem fine. Together, they carefully lift the unconscious man into the back of the SUV, and Connor climbs in the back to sit with him.

    They reach Connor’s apartment complex in just over two minutes (he swears he isn’t staring at the clock in the car), then fight to awkwardly lift the man out of the car and up the flight of stairs to Connor’s apartment. Once inside, they lay him on the bed in the guest room. Kara makes a comment about the sheets not making it through unscathed, but Connor disregards her with an obvious lie about needing new sheets anyway.

    Kara then washes the man’s back and arms then carefully tends to his plentiful superficial wounds with Connor’s help, since there was apparently glass in some of his cuts. By the time they’re finished with that and the man has a light blanket draped over him, a couple of hours have gone by. Kara leaves once Connor promises (lies) that the person he texted about staying over will be on their way very soon and isn’t there now because they have a shift at the grocery store.

    Now that Connor is completely alone and is starting to feel the nerves from having a large, presumably strong stranger unconscious in his home, he doesn’t quite know what to do. Normally when things get stressful or unusual, he’d write a short story depicting a character going through something that would make them just as uncomfortable and stressed as he is and post it on his Patreon, but he doesn’t want the click-clacking of his keyboard to mask any noises that the man might make.

    After a bit of thinking and standing around, he decides to paint the sunset he took a picture of earlier.

    He goes down the short hallway that connects his room, laundry room, and bathroom to the rest of the apartment. He opens the closet on the right side of the room and grabs a canvas and various paints and brushes. Going back out to the area of life, as Connor calls it (since the kitchen, dining room, and living room are all one large area, with the living room sectioned off by couches and the kitchen by a counter island and tiles on the ground), he sets up his stuff on his small, square table. He makes sure he’s facing the doors to his and the guest rooms with his back to the front door and the sliding door to his balcony/patio thing.

    He pauses in his painting every 45 minutes to an hour so he can check on the nekojin. When the sun finally rises in the morning, Connor’s finished two sellable paintings and is starting a third. He has officially reached the level of exhaustion where he no longer feels tired as long as he ignores the pressure behind his eyes and the headache starting to form. Sometimes his insomnia-like-symptoms flare up until he gets to this point, so he isn’t worried.

    After checking on the man yet again, Connor decides to fix a breakfast sandwich using his near-expired bacon and a tube of premade biscuits. He makes enough eggs and bacon for only one person, not knowing when the nekojin will wake up and if he even eats eggs or meat.

    He’s in the middle of putting his food on a plate when there’s a slight and distant creak. If he were alone, Connor would have been able to convince himself that it was the building settling or something of the like, but he isn’t. He quickly turns around and is relieved to see nothing behind him. He hastily scoops the last bit of eggs onto his plate before cautiously walking through the living area towards the guest room. He pauses right at the door and listens for movement, just in case the man woke up and is trying to do something stupid and/or dangerous.

    Connor may be trained in various types of combat and self defense, but he’s not stupid enough to think that makes him invincible. Especially against someone who is as large as that man was, and that’s excluding the chances that this stranger has training in some kind of combat as well.

    After a couple of seconds of complete silence, Connor hesitantly opens the door just wide enough to slowly peek half of his head through. He immediately sees that the man is no longer in his bed. He’s barely able to open the door wider to step inside before a heavy weight barrels into him from the side. Next thing he knows, he’s pinned to the wall by a furious nekojin, with his ears pinned to his head and fangs sharp as needles. It’s already getting hard to breathe and Connor, as predicted, can’t move the arm that’s pushed against his throat. Trying to move his right arm and both legs is useless because the man also has them pinned enough to where he can’t make any effective attacks on him.

    He must have some kind of training in combat as well, or has learned from personal experience. Connor is completely screwed if this man decides he is too much of a threat or isn’t worth his time.

    “Cause any trouble and I make your life painful, ya hear?” the man snarls lowly, and if Connor wasn’t already used to being pinned against walls and threatened, he’d probably be panicking right now. Connor rapidly nods as calmly as he can (which isn’t nearly calm enough) while being in this situation. “Who the fuck are you?”

    “Connor” he rasps painfully, “I’m– no harm. Please–”

    The older man hisses, and it sounds nothing like when cats do it. When cats hiss, it almost sounds like an air leakage from a pipe; high pitched and more breathy than anything. This hiss, though, is not unlike what demons sound like in horror movies. It’s lower and almost growlish and absolutely terrifying enough to make up for the lack of a small, agile body.

    It shuts Connor up to say the absolute least.

    “Where the fuck did you bring me?”

    “My–” Connor coughs and gasps painfully, “apartment.” That must have been the wrong answer because the pressure on his throat increases. Since moving the arm is impossible, he starts patting it to try to signal the stranger that he really needs air.

    “I can fuckin’ see that, dumbass. I meant where the fuck is this place?”

    “Not– far, fr-from… alley…” Huh, so the darkness not only invades from the sides of your vision, but the focus of it also dims too. And nobody ever mentioned in the books he read about how much pressure is building in his head right now, like it’s going to explode soon. Aw great, now he’s starting to mildly dissociate. Just what he needs.

    The nekojin is trying to say something to him, but the only things he can make out clearly from the sudden white noise are “you”, “better”, and “punk”. Connor doesn’t want to agree to something preposterous, but he also doesn’t want to try to ask for clarification or anything like that and make the man angrier. He suddenly has a fleeting thought of dying here, and his mind just as suddenly latches onto it and won’t let go. God he’s so fucking stupid. He knew this was a horrible idea, and he still fucking did it. Why doesn’t he ever listen to anyone?

    Just as Connor tries to reach his left arm up to damage the man’s face somehow and force him to let go, he’s abruptly released.

    Connor barely avoids dropping to the ground and instead leans against the wall because his legs want to function more like jelly than anything remotely solid. He coughs and gasps but locks his knees so he’s less likely to fall over into a more defenseless position. He distantly recognizes that the nekojin is trying to talk to him again, but he’s too preoccupied with getting air into his lungs and not falling over to even try to decipher it. Thankfully, whatever he said apparently wasn’t super important because nothing happens when Connor doesn’t give any kind of response, and nothing continues to happen until he’s breathing normally and standing up on his own again.

    “You said I wasn’t far from the alley,” the nekojin spits out, “How close is it?”

    Connor blinks the tears from his eyes. “Five minute walk, maybe.” he answers quietly, throat hurting.

    “Where are your roommates?”

    “Don’t have any.”

    “You live completely alone?” he asks, an eyebrow raised in suspicion.

    Connor silently nods.

    “Why’d you bring me here? Think you could tame some fuckin’ stray to be your personal pet? ‘Cause you’re very wrong.” he ends in a growl. It sends shivers up Connor’s spine and he can feel the sweat on him beading and rolling down. If this comes to blows again, there’s no way Connor will be able to win, especially not like this.

    “No. You’re hurt.” he says more sure, finally lifting his head to meet the other’s eyes.

    “You honestly expect me to believe that you brought an old, stray nekojin home just because he was a little hurt?”

    Connor nods. “Didn’t know if you were bleeding out or not–”

    He shuts his mouth with a click and braces himself for another attack when he sees the stranger move. It’s barely a shift to the side, but it’s enough to send Connor back into highest alert. The guy must realise this because he shifts backward a step.

    “What do you get outta patchin’ me up?”

    “...technically nothing?”

    “No one does anything without any reward, so fuckin’ spill it.” he spits.

    “A clear conscious, maybe?” There’s no bite in his words, only the underlying fear of giving the wrong answer. When the older man doesn’t immediately shoot another question, Connor continues. “Look, I just don’t like it when people’re in pain. I wanted to help, so I did.”

    “People.” When Connor stares blankly in return, he continues. “I’m not people. Won’t ever be, thanks to the ears and tail.”

    “You should be people.” he breathes. “A lot of others agree with me, nowadays.”

    “Ah, so you’re one of those activists? You realise you guys are going to get killed before anything substantial changes right?”

    “I’m– uh, I’m not really an activist? I don’t like all the attention.” Connor forces himself to loosen up a little, more to prove that he isn’t a danger to the wild card in front of him and less because he actually wants to. “It makes me nervous.”

    “Yet you supposedly bring home a dangerous stranger from the streets into your own home just for the sake of patching up a few scratches.”

    Connor stands at full height once more, his voice sharp, “You also have severe bruising and a concussion. And the hospital wouldn’t have done much for you because it wasn’t immediately life threatening and you don’t have a collar.”

    “If it wasn’t fucking life threatening then you should have left me out there! To hell with your hero dilemma or whatever the fuck you have!” the man snaps, waving his arms in wide, angry gestures, “How the hell did you even know where to find me, if you really aren’t with the fuckers who did this to me?”

    “I was walking home from work and heard someone get hit, then voices threatening murder. I just stayed until they left in case I needed to jump in and stop them.” Connor says gravely.

    The man sighs. Connor can feel his exhaustion from that one breath alone, but holds his ground. He doesn’t know what is genuine and what is an act to get him to lower his defenses. He’s suddenly aware that he’s shaking.

    “And how the fuck did you get me here?” His tone is slightly less angry.

    “Called a friend with a car. She’s the one who patched you up ‘cause she’s a doctor.” Connor tries to slow his trembling, and, to his surprise, it’s kind of working.

    The older man eyes him, “And why the fuck did she help?”

    “She thought someone else was staying with me last night so I wasn’t alone with you.” Connor blurts before reassuring, “No one else is here, but she doesn’t know that. She has her own things to worry about. I don’t want her involved.” With that, he stops his breathing exercises, confident he won’t start panting or hyperventilating.

    “And you don’t have one?” he can almost hear the raised eyebrow accompanying the nekojin’s question.

    “Not really.” He doesn’t really want to talk about this, especially not to someone he doesn’t know.

    “Nothin’ to lose by taking in a stranger, huh? Self destructive much?”

    “Not– not exactly.”

    There’s a few moments of tense silence. Connor still refuses to move a single muscle from earlier and it’s starting to get strenuous now, but he won’t lower his guard until he knows this nekojin isn’t a threat anymore. 

    “...You’re not gonna try to name me or some shit?” the partial-human asks warily and, if Connor isn’t wrong, with a hint of timidity.

    That… was not at all what Connor was expecting out of the gruff man after what has been going down. He didn’t even know that people did that to partial humans. It sadly makes sense, though, considering history. Animals have always been renamed with little issue, and back in the day, people used to do just the same to partial humans too. Connor thought that kind of thing died decades ago, though. 

    “No? I didn’t even fully realize that was a thing people still did…”

    “And none of these drawers have clothes of my size in them?”

    “I– No! Check if you want but–”

    Connor falls silent when the other man suddenly turns to the single dresser in the room and opens the first drawer. Every drawer after that was opened and reshut with great haste. Finding it all empty, he moves on to the closet and goes through the small shelving unit in there. He once again finds nothing, and shuts the closet with an obvious breath of relief. He sharply turns back to Connor. The man must see something in Connor because he sighs and shuffles towards where he’s still sitting against the wall.

    “You really don’t want any ownership over me?” The man sounds less angry and more skeptical.

    “If you don’t believe me, then you can always leave. I don’t want to trap you. But you’re still hurt.” Only silence follows, so Connor tries again to make this man trust that he won’t slap a collar on him. “I’ve never been interested in getting a nekojin. I hate what you guys have to endure, and I’ve always pretty much seen everyone as equals. It actually got me a bit of unwanted attention when I was younger.” He adds after a split second of hesitation.

    The stranger huffs in what seems like a mocking manner. Connor can understand why.

    “You sure you’re not an activist? Going out and parading and getting arrested by plan?”

    Connor fights the urge to squirm in shame and apprehension and shakes his head. “I’ve always been too shy for anything like that, and I don’t like a lot of attention focused on me. It’s stressful.”

    The man takes two steps closer to Connor, who instinctively tenses, not realizing that he ever relaxed just the slightest bit in the first place. The other pauses, then shuffles back half a step, putting his hands in his pockets in a way that makes it obvious that he’s forcing himself to do so, rather than keep them ready for a fight and out in the open.

    “How do I know you aren’t with those three brats and are gonna try your shot at taming my fugly mug into something sellable? Hm? How do I know that no one’s waiting to catch me if I try to leave like you offered?”

    Connor speaks without thinking. “You’re not fugly, just in need of a shower and new clothes.” Connor hates the tense silence that immediately follows, so Connor quickly moves on and fills it, “And, I– uh– I guess you don’t? I mean, I don’t know how to prove it? That I don’t think it’s a good idea to ‘tame’ anyone? I mean, don’t you need those life skills? To like, survive and stuff in our current society?”

    The nekojin only gapes at him as if he’s said something completely absurd, and knowing himself, he probably did without realizing it. When it becomes obvious that Connor isn’t going to continue, the stranger shakes his head incredulously.

    “Do you know how many people would call a nekojin’s feral state ‘life skills’? Even the damn activists have their own ideas about how our sanity should be managed. Are you fucking insane?”

    Connor winces at his tone. “Uh… I mean, you don’t seem  _feral_  to me, as such… But I know I’m socially awkward and I’ve been told I’m dense–”

    “I can’t tell if you’re shitting me or if you’re really trying hard to get me to not fucking hate you.” He suddenly sniffs the air and his expression becomes darker. “Something is burning. What the hell are you cooking?”

     _Burning?_  Connor thinks, sniffing the air. He can’t really smell anything. A partial-human’s sense of must be substantially stronger than a pure human’s; a single truth within the many lies of the internet.

    “I was making a breakfast sandwich before you woke up… It might be the biscuits that you smell burning?”

    He should really go pull them out of the oven, but he’s still afraid that this guy will pounce on him again if he tries to make an unannounced move for the door, and he doesn’t want a repeat of that whatsoever. On another note, there is absolutely no way he’s going to have his back turned to an aggressive stranger for any amount of time, especially because this one has claws and fangs. 

    “Fine, I smell the eggs and bacon too, but I’m gonna go sit out where you’ll be cooking so I know where you are and what you’re doing.” He straightens up and crosses his arms defiantly. The post is practically begging Connor to refuse the guy so he can do something about it. Too bad Connor doesn’t want to.

    “That’s fine,” Connor pauses, then tries something bold at the last moment, “As long as you tell me what to call you.” The other startles at that, “I’m tired of calling you ‘stranger’ and ‘nekojin’ in my head.” Connor relaxes his pose just enough to seem like he isn’t ready to spring into any kind of action still, even though he definitely still is. “I’m Connor.”

    He scrutinizes the younger man, then sighs and untenses just a tad. “Fine. Lead the way, then. I’m Hank, and that’s all you’re gonna get outta me.”

    “I didn’t expect anything else.” He attempts a smile that he suspects looks more like a grimace.

    Now that Connor is somewhat confident that the stranger–  _Hank_  isn’t going to pounce on him the moment his back is turned, he’s able to exit the door and walk to the kitchen area without looking alarmingly tense and uncomfortable. Connor hears a door close as he finds and pulls on a pair of oven mitts. Connor still keeps a mental map of where Hank is by the sound of his footsteps as he grabs the pan of moderately burned biscuits out of the oven.

    He sets the pan on the counter so the cooked-to-dark-brown biscuits can cool so the trash bag doesn’t melt when he throws them away. Then he swiftly pulls out a stool from the kitchen island and takes the smoke alarm off of the ceiling, then deactivating it right as it begins beeping with the timing and grace of only someone who has done this a million other times can achieve. He gets down and puts the stool back. He moves back to the oven and turns it off all while avoiding having his back completely to Hank, who’s standing in his living room.

    There’s complete silence in the room that makes Connor’s nerves bristle. Connor glances over to the knife block next to the fridge, knowing that he would never actually use them to harm anyone, but he likes to believe he could bluff his way out of a dire situation. Although, now that he’s thinking about it, maybe he couldn’t. Hank would probably be unfazed or get angrier after everything he’s experienced in his lifetime, and that’s if he somehow believes that Connor would actually use said knife after everything he’s said and done.

    Connor jumps when Hank starts speaking.

    “Everything good now? You’ve been standing there starin’ at nothin’ like a lunatic.”

    Connor says nothing, choosing to just nod instead as he casually crosses his arms and leans against the counter next to the oven in a strained act of nonchalance.

    Hank studies him carefully. “Why are you helping me, really?”

    Connor can’t help but silently sigh. He may have already said this once or twice before, and he may not blame the guy in the slightest for not believing him, but still. It’s not like his answer is going to change from when he asked earlier. Although, that may be why he’s asking again, as some form of test or something.

    “Like I said before, I don’t think I’ll get anything tangible out of this. If you  _really_  need something, then maybe self-satisfaction or a clean conscious for helping someone in need, but nothing tangible like money.” Hank shoots him a blank look that he hates. He sighs. “I just– My gut told me that you needed some real help, and I was going to give it whether you were a pure human or partial. It’s just that after finding out you had cat ears and a tail, I knew that no hospital in the area was going to give you proper care so 911 was essentially useless. I generally have good intuition when it comes to people, so I trusted it and brought you home instead of leaving you tied down in that nasty alley.” What Connor doesn’t mention aloud is how he’s been regretting not leaving him bandaged up in the cleaner part of that alley ever since he couldn’t see the other man in the guest room’s bed earlier.

    His last statement catches Hank’s attention, who then turns his head to look away from Connor for the first time since being awake and looks out a window. He clears his throat, cutting off Connor’s growing panic. The guy’s head is down and his shoulders are slumped, but it’s still obvious that he’s still on edge and wary of his surroundings and Connor. When he speaks, it sounds like he has to force the sound from his lips.

    “Look, Connor, I’m sorry for snapping at you, even if I don’t entirely regret protecting myself like that. But I still don’t trust or like you, got it?”

    “Yeah. The sentiment is kind of the same right now, no offense.”

    “None taken,” Hank pauses and straightens up, “Do you at least get where I’m coming from, though?” he takes a step forward. “Like, according to society, I am an untamed animal or slave, and I wake up in a strange room and am getting checked on every god damned minute by a complete stranger when the last thing I remember is getting kicked around and beat with broken bottles.” He shakes his head and looks away.

    “I ain’t some starvin’, twink cat that you can just bring home and teach how to trust and love or whatever the fuck else books try to say. Hell, I’m not even a Persian or Maine Coon cat with those big bushy tails like people always love to give us larger people. I’m just an old, fat calico.”

    Hank suddenly stiffens upon saying that last word, but Connor ignores it and lowers his head.

    “I personally don’t agree with the stereotypes as well. But as I offered before,” Connor raises his head to meet Hank’s eyes again, “you’re always welcome to leave, The front door is right there. I’m not keeping you trapped here, and there’s not anyone after you or anything that I know of, so…” Connor shrugs.

    For the first time this morning, Hank looks more uncomfortable than anything else, and Connor doesn’t really have the energy to unpack that. He starting to feel tired because of the lack of adrenaline in his system, so he’ll probably need some caffeinated tea soon. Maybe a new breakfast to go with it, too; his stomach is starting to hurt with hunger because he forgot dinner last night.

    Still, Hank hasn’t responded, so Connor takes this opportunity to give him the explicit option to stay because he’s already given the nekojin multiple outs and, as stupid as Connor knows he can be, he doesn’t think Hank should be left on his own quite yet. Besides, he really doesn’t think that Hank will do any harm for no reason. His anger and violence earlier were understandable at the least, and neither of them seem to want a repeat of that any time soon. Connor doesn’t think he’s making the wrong decision by doing this since Hank’s already here in his apartment, anyway. Emphasis on think.

    “If you wanted to stay, though, I can make you breakfast? Or you can watch me make your breakfast, or just make it yourself if you want. I mean, because I’m willing to bet that you haven’t had anything decent in a while, yeah?” He chuckles awkwardly. It almost works to make the atmosphere less heavy. Almost.

    Hank stares him down, obviously still skeptical and wary of Connor. The creator tries to not do anything that could be taken as suspicious, but that in of itself could be suspicious in a way. A few more seconds pass like this in tense silence before Hank finally sighs and relaxes his shoulders the slightest bit.

    “What the fucking hell is my life anymore.” He mumbles, then raises his voice to a normal speaking level “Alright. I’m gonna sit on that stool,” He points to one of the two the kitchen island, “And I’m gonna watch you so you don’t poison my food. And then you can hear me if I even so much as shuffle, so you’ll know I won’t attack you from behind.”

    “Okay.” He watches as Hank moves with a slight limp in his left leg and sits with a poorly concealed wince. “Did you… did you want to maybe redress your wounds? I have over the counter pain meds if you want, but I doubt you’d trust that.”

    “You’re right. I don’t trust that a single fucking bit. This ain’t nothin’ I haven’t gone through before, so you can quit your worryin’.” Hank hesitates, then continues, almost meeker. “And you don’t need to worry about allergies. I’ll eat anythin’.”

    Connor simply nods in response, already getting used to Hank’s vulgarity and irritation. It’s probably not healthy why he’s already getting used to it, considering it’s mostly due to questionable parenting choices and plenty of childhood bullying, but no one really has the time or patience to unpack that right now (or ever, if Connor has any say in it). Therefore, he does what he does second best, and instead of slowly unpacking that box of troubles and sorting through it like any healthy person should, he simply tapes that box shut tightly with three layers of duct tape and shoves it to the back of his mental storage unit while he takes out his pan cleaner to wash off the remnants of his food before starting Hank’s.

    As he gathers ingredients and tools to the island so Hank can see exactly what Connor is doing at all times, he never once looks up at Hank. The why from earlier tries to rear its ugly head again, but he shoves and forces it down again with practiced ease. Unlike what it has to say about the damnable why, his gut is telling him that Hank isn’t really a bad person, that he’s just been dealt a shit hand in his life. It’s right about people much more often than it’s not, and Connor can only hope that this isn’t one of those times where it’s not.

    He finds himself almost wanting to like Hank, to show him that the world isn’t completely filled with stupid assholes, only  _mostly_  full.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys!! Sorry if this first chapter's weird, I ended up changing the plot to this story last minute and rewrote this chapter, like, 3 and a half times now? So, yeah, there’s that. This chapter was a bit angsty and boring and I still kinda really hate it, but!! But!!! I am moving on because Protective Hank™ will be making an appearance next chapter!! The next chapter of this and The Drift Between Us may not come for a couple of weeks because I have to update the EXO x Reader I’m writing on a blog I share with my friend that I have been neglecting lately Lol. So, that’s pretty much it! Thank you for taking the time to read this, and I hope you have a pleasant day/night! 😊💕


	2. Intruder

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: House intruder, Violence, Guns (it’s a BB and police gun, but stay safe!), Plenty of swearing, Disassociation based on my own experiences with it, a mention of past drugging

    Two omelettes, a cup of tea, a mug of coffee, and several strips of bacon later, Connor has grown used to Hank’s presence. When the creator placed his mug and plate in front of him, the nekojin thanked him and apologized for earlier that morning again and that was that. Hank even brought his dishes to the sink and rinsed them off, which is more than he expects (and often times gets) from his friends, let alone a complete stranger that’s skeptical of him and this environment.

    Hank excuses himself to go check on his stitches and add more layers to the bandages that bled through, because apparently removing the reddened bandages on a deeper wound has a high chance of ruining any clotting or scabbing under and is counterproductive to the wrapping’s purpose. He doesn’t question or say anything when Hank unsubtly searches down the short hall to the master bedroom on his way to the guest room. He almost admits to doing the same thing during his first couple of weeks in the new apartment, but decides against it.

    Connor finishes loading the dishwasher and runs it, then paces around the living room for a while. He eventually finds himself back at his makeshift set up at the coffee table before Hank comes back out of the closed room. He understands well that the older man just needs some time to cool down and clear his head before coming up with the next step. Until he hears the squeak and grinding of that room’s window opening, he’ll leave him be.

    Two and a half hours have passed since Hank retired to the guest room when he finally walks back out. Although, it is clear that he’s not pleased in having to. Connor carefully keeps his eyes on his painting while simultaneously watching the nekojin. He finally looks up when the other silently stops in front of him on the other side of the short table.

    “I need your help, if you’re actually wanting to help an old bastard like me for free. And no funny business. Got it?”

    Connor replies as calmly as possible, “Wouldn’t dream of it. What do you need help with?”

    Hank hesitates, “I need you to take this–” he drops a disinfectant wipe next to the painting, “–and I need you to wash between my shoulder blades. I can’t quite reach.”

    He can see Hank’s awkwardness and embarrassment over having to ask for help, so Connor pointedly doesn’t make a big deal out of it.

    “Can do.”

    Connor immediately understands why Hank resorted to asking him for help. Right where he can’t reach is a sticky residue left from the patch placed there to protect the small set of stitches there. Connor quickly wipes what he can while trying to avoid directly touching him with his hand by accident, not knowing how the older man would react. It doesn’t take any more than a minute, then Hank nods his silent thanks and retreats back to his assigned room again. Connor sits back down and adds the finishing details to his art piece.

    He starts another piece, this one simpler than the last, while the other is drying, and has almost finished it after three hours. Connor finally gathers enough bravery to ask Hank if he’s hungry for lunch and stands, only to be interrupted a soft knocking at his door.

    He isn’t expecting anybody, and the homeless man in his apartment surely isn’t expecting anyone either. Kara has work today, Luther has another client, Simon and Markus are still out of town. Alice and Ralph always call without fail whenever they want to come over because they know it makes him more infinitely more comfortable that way. Connor’s family would never show up unexpectedly, even if it was an emergency. Even then, he is rather low on the “call or show up if there’s an emergency” list. He hasn’t ordered anything, and the delivery man only rings the doorbell… 

    Connor looks through the peephole to find a large man with a beard and greasy hair combed back into a half-assed ponytail. His red, button-up shirt and jeans would probably look nice if they weren’t rumpled like he hasn’t changed in a day or two. His smile screams ingenuine and impatient, even if it would have looked polite enough to anyone not paying close attention, and his eyes aren’t much better. The makeup he’s wearing under his eyes don’t match his skin tone quite right, so it’s blatantly obvious that he’s trying to cover dark eye bags, and that only makes his appearance worse than if he just left them be.

    All in all, Connor immediately dislikes the guy and wants nothing to do with him.

    Connor relents, though, and cracks the door open just wide enough to fit his head through when he knocks again.

    “Hello. Can I help you?”

    The man’s smile widens, still as plastic as before. “Ah, I’m hoping you can. Have you seen an old neko anywhere? I’ve just been asking around to see if anyone happened to see him. I’m very worried because he isn’t very…  _personable_ , and someone could report him as feral instead of owned.”

    Yup. Connor hates him.

    “Uh, no, sorry. I haven’t seen him. Is there a number I can call if I–”

    “And you’re  _positive_  that you haven’t seen him? No sign of him at all?” The man leans in and Connor quickly tucks his head in and closes the door a little more.

    “I have no reason to lie.” Connor lies.

    The plastic smile on the mans face drops into a scowl.

    “I think you do.”

    Connor slams the door shut, but it’s stopped just before it has the chance to click. In a panic, he tries shoving it that little bit left, but instead he gets knocked down to the ground when the door rams into him instead. Connor has just enough time to glance up at the man, then roll out of the way before a boot lands right where his diaphragm used to be. He fights his instincts to freeze and scrambles to his feet and hurdles over his couch with his attacker speed walking around it to get him, obviously saving his energy for a bigger fight.

    Saving his energy for taking down Hank.

    Connor may have a (probably) minor case of PTSD and general anxiety, but half of his family is either in the military, police force, or has general training in whatever fighting style they chose. He even got an odd year or two of self-defense and gun training under his own belt before he was pulled out altogether when he admitted he wanted to go down a completely different career path. Connor may be almost completely useless in conflict, but it takes  _a lot_  to finally get him down for good, thanks to years of training and bullying.

    It’s always made him the perfect distraction– the perfect staller.

    Connor hastily reaches under the couch where he remembers stashing a fully loaded BB gun (courtesy of his brother from back in high school) under the fabric covering. He gets a good hold of it when he’s suddenly yanked upright by his collar, which temporarily chokes him. The click of Connor cocking his gun interrupts whatever the disgusting man was going to say with the breath he took, and the author fights every part of his anxious self and squeezes the trigger while aiming in the other man’s direction.

    With a loud pop and a grunt of pain, the stranger releases Connor in order to hold his thigh. Connor tumbles to the ground, trying to catch his breath. He cocks the old BB gun again and aims up at the man’s torso. The jeans the attacker is wearing stopped the BB from breaking any skin, but there will be one hell of a bruise– Connor knows because he’s been on the receiving end of this thing once or twice before. It’s also because of his brief work as target practice he knows that a shot to the chest will hurt even more.

    The man lets out a shout for that. Connor distantly worries about noise complaints, then scolds himself because he is in the middle of being attacked, he doesn’t have time to sit and worry about if his neighbors can hear him. If he starts worrying about things that aren’t immediately taking place in front of him, he’ll disassociate, and that’s the worst possible thing that could happen in a fight. He knows this from experience as well.

    The man grunts as he tries to stand at his full height, and for some reason his mind jumps to when his brother, Ritch, stood almost the same way, but between Connor and three dudes. Ritch is an officer or detective or  _something_  in the police force, but that doesn’t matter right now. He’s not here and Connor can’t lose his delicate focus. Actually, he should probably call the police, but the fact of the matter is that he just doesn’t have the time to rattle off his address to the emergency operators at the moment.

     _Stop it. Focus on the here and now. Focus on how this stranger looks like he’s about to step over and murder you._ Murder _you._

    Wait. Didn’t Ritch transfer closer to a department around here recently? They both know where the other lives, and if he did transfer, all Connor would need to do is call and he’d be able to leave no problem, right? No response would be more worrying than trying to rush out information in the two-second slot he has open now. The real question is, could Ritch get here in time before this psycho mauls him to death?

    Well, there’s only one way to find out.

    Connor lunges for his phone, which is innocently laying on the coffee table next to his drying paintings. He instantly has his phone calling his brother’s number (thank god he finally decided to put Ritch on speed dial two weeks ago) and he picks up before the first ring can end. He isn’t busy then, which is good because grubby just took his first step with his bad leg and Connor can’t cock the gun with one hand. Although, he isn’t sure if he could with two hands because they’re shaking so badly at this point. He’s officially useless.

    “Connor?” his voice is urgent, which snaps him out of it. “Why are you–”

    “You transferred closer to my area, right?” He notes that his voice is probably too neutral to be considered healthy in this situation. It probably has to do with how he feels himself slipping, how everything else is slowly becoming farther away and less focused.

    He forces himself to stand up and quickly back away from wannabe hulk. The wannabe hulk retaliates by quickly gaining on him.

    “I’m actually stationed  _in_  your area now.” There’s a quick shuffling on the other end. “Connor, what’s–”

    He doesn’t get to hear the rest of the sentence because he’s suddenly barreled into and forced to the ground. Before Connor has the chance to react, his BB gun is wrenched out of his hand and he sees the other hand reaching for his phone next. Reacting on pure instinct, the phone is chucked across the room towards the carpeted area near the hallway before the intruder gets a hold of it. 

    “You mother fucker.” He aims the stolen gun at Connor’s throat. That could probably kill him in minutes if he decides to shoot in just the right place, which doesn’t help Connor’s panic in the slightest. “Alright. Who the fuck d’you call, and where the fuck is he?”

    Connor tries to swallow unsuccessfully.

    “I–I’m al–lone.” he grits out.

    “Oh? You sure about that, little guy?”

    Connor clenches his jaw. His limbs are starting to feel numb. Damn it, useless again. 

    “Fine then. But I can’t have you getting in the way while I go find him myself. You’ve proven to be a pain in the ass.” He puts his finger on the trigger and with another pop of the gun–

    –the man’s tackled onto the couch.

    That’s just about all Connor can process in this moment, along with the fact that the BB pellet just to the left of his neck and there’s yelling and snarling coming from somewhere. Now is  _not_  the time to fully disassociate, but he can hardly control it. His vision is going shady, his limbs feel properly numb but not really numb but mainly numb, and he can feel his brain going a hundred miles a minute trying to catch up on what has happened, is happening, and what might happen all at once, while also moving too slow to even begin computing how limbs or lungs work.

    He doesn’t know how long he’s out for, but the shrill sound of glass shattering brings him back to the real world. It’s only just enough to be mostly in control, but not enough to feel the panic that is no doubt racing through his veins. He gets up into a crouching position, just high enough to see over the couch at the fight between Hank and the intruder. It isn’t looking good, with Hank on the ground groaning in pain and bleeding again while fuck-tard stalks towards him with a thick collar. One of the illegal, electrical kinds, Connor realizes grimly.

    He mutters a curse under his breath and looks to the rest of the room for something to stop him with. He can’t just let Hank get taken or beaten like this, not after he saw how determined the older man was to not be brought back to a place like wherever he came from. The first thing he sees that could be remotely helpful is his art scalpel, normally used for spreading paint across a canvas for certain effects, they can be quite damaging even with their rounded ends.

    With expert form (in which he will proudly admit to practicing throwing these tools into the dirt like throwing the daggers he, and only he, was never allowed to have), he throws the scalpel towards the greasy man, hitting his arm the metal end. It bounces off of his arm and doesn’t do severe damage, with the rounded edges and the glob of dried paint softening the blow, but it does draw blood and it may get infected because of said paint. In the end, it only serves to further anger the large man and cause him to storm towards Connor. Although this reaction isn’t ideal, it also means that Hank is being left alone for the time being. He’s been beaten up enough lately, and Connor still knows how to take a hit or seven.

    Connor waits until the man rounds the couch before scrambling up to launch himself back over the couch and out the front door– since the only other direction he could run in would lead to being trapped deeper in the apartment– but he’s yanked back by his foot just as he jumps. His chest hits the crest rail of the couch and his face hits one of the slats in the back of it, leaving him with a sudden difficulty in breathing and a bleeding nose and mouth. He’s harshly yanked back, which makes his chin knock into the crest rail painfully. Now’s there’s even more blood in his mouth from his newly bitten tongue.

    He forces himself to kick and punch, willing himself to not freeze up, but the man seems to ignore any damage he takes as he forces the artist back down to the floor and pins him there with a strong, constricting hand on his throat. Connor manages to grab another one of his scalpels, a smaller, sharper one this time that’s meant for finer detailing, but doesn’t get much farther thanks to the unexpected, painful grip on his wrist.

    “Don’t you even think about it, punk.” he growls, then twists Connors wrist and arm in a way that forces him to drop his shank with a quiet cry. “I knew you were gonna be a pain in the fucking ass.”

    The man leans over to pick it up, but Connor kicks him hard in the knee first. That earns him a tight hand around the throat. The author begins to kick and thrash wildly, he even tries spitting blood on his eyes, anything to loosen his hold now that every bit of training he had decades ago has vanished from his brain. What ends up successfully freeing him from the intruder’s grasp is a sudden, empty glass bottle to his head, courtesy of Hank.

    “Your fight is with me, Zlatko.” The calico coughs once then spits blood on the back of their opponent’s head. “He ain’t got nothin’ to do with this, so you leave him the fuck alone.”

    Hank lands a kick so hard to their attacker’s– Zlatko, apparently– chest that he ends up completely rolling off of Connor and hitting the couch. The way Hank bends over to hold his knee afterwards shows how much that kick bothered him in return, but the fire scorching in his eyes prove that it was completely worth it. Zlatko shakes his head as if clearing it of something as he makes to stand up. Connor sees this clearly and bends his legs to dropkick the same knee he had just kicked. He misses by a few inches, though, and ends up hitting his shin instead. It still forces the man back down to his knees. Hank looks shocked at Connor’s action, though, if not absolutely ready for round two with this asshole, so he’ll take what he can get.

    He gets up from between the coffee table and couch and dashes to the kitchen, where he vaguely remembers the last BB shot coming from. Connor can hear Hank and Zlatko struggling to get the upper hand by the time he finally gets ahold of the pellet gun. He turns around just in time to see the calico knee the other in the groin, followed immediately by an elbow to Zlatko’s throat. He stumbles away from Hank just far enough that Connor isn’t worried about him catching the weapon by mistake.

    “Hank!”

    He looks over at the rough sound of his name and Connor tosses him the BB gun. He instantly has it pointed at their opponent with a form that gives away that this is far from the first time he’s used a gun. Connor doesn’t know how to feel about that, but there’s far less negative emotions than there normally would be, he notes with surprise.

    “I fuckin’ dare you get back up.” Hank coughs, sounding no better than last time. “Go ahead and see what happens. Go on.”

    Zlatko does get up, and what happens is Hank shoots, but thanks to his injured arm, he only hits the other’s shoulder, which apparently doesn’t do as much damage as it should. Then, before Hank can get his injured arm to cock the old gun properly, Zlatko rushes him and plows him to the ground with a distinct crack.

    Connor has no clue who was injured or what cracked, but he knows he needs to do something now because who knows if or when professional help will arrive. He glances around for something– anything that could help Hank. Connor launches himself towards the knife block next to the fridge and grabs one at random. It’s then that the door crashes open from where it wasn’t closed all the way at some point in time by another man with a gun.

    “Police! Freeze!”

     _Ritch._

    Connor sighs deeply in relief, dropping the knife in his hand and sagging to the ground. It’s almost over. Now he just has to make sure Hank is okay and not disconnect from everything just yet. He’s managed to pull himself back twice today, he can do it a third time. Only after he knows Hank is okay and Zlatko is gone for good can he allow himself to go back to his room and have a proper break down behind a locked door. This isn’t anything he hasn’t already done before; planning when and where he can freak out and process things.

    Connor leans over so he can see Hank’s and Zlatko’s reactions to Ritch in his uniform barging in from the safety of behind the kitchen island.

    Hank apparently froze at the sound of Ritch’s voice and dropped the gun like he should have, despite still being on the ground. Zlakto, on the other hand, reaches for the abandoned BB gun instead.

    “I said freeze! Drop the weapon!”

    Zlatko doesn’t listen, and promptly gets shot in the leg. He learns the hard way that real bullets do, in fact, draw blood through denim. Hank slowly stands up with his hands still by his head. Ritch pays no mind to him or the other two officers entering the apartment.

    “Connor!?”

    “Right here.” his voice more a groan than anything else, likely from the choking and blood. “And before you ask, I’m alright for now. Hank’s hurt, though.” He points to where the man in question stands, obviously putting less weight on one leg than the other. He hopes that the crack wasn’t his leg.

    His brother helps stand him up and steady him, “Jesus Connor, you are absolutely  _not_  alright! Your mouth is gushing blood and you’re in shock, but once that wears off–”

    Connor cuts him off. “That’s why I said for now. Hank’s injuries are more urgent. This blood is just a bit tongue and busted lip, his are mostly physical.”

    He hears a sigh, followed by a cough. “I’m fine. This ain’t nothin’ I’m not already used to. Just need a bit of patching up.”

    They both turn to where Hank stands as relaxed as he can get, which is still rather tense. Ritch speaks first.

    “I’m gonna have to side with Connor on this one. You aren’t looking too good, either.” He whips his attention back to where Connor’s climbing off the floor. “But that doesn’t mean you’re getting away with this– ” he gestures to his face “–either!”

    “Most of this is from a group of assholes last night.” Hank interrupts with a shrug. “Anything that looks bad is probably something that happened last night. Connor’s shit is all today”

    “ _Hos-pi-tal_.” Connor emphasizes each syllable. Something about the way he said it makes Hank freeze.

    “Woah, okay Connor.” Ritch holds his hands out, “You’re forgetting to breathe.”

    Connor didn’t even realize that he ever stopped. He forces a gasp, which triggers something in his mind because he’s suddenly aware of how much he’s shaking and how weak and tired he feels, but also how he feels like he’ll never be able to sleep or sit still again. He takes another deep breath when Ritch looks like he’s about to tell him to do so.

    “I’m fine. I’m fine. I’m not hurt. I’ll just need to be alone real soon so I can freak out for a few hours and get it out of my system. I have a system for fight aftermaths.” His laugh sounds ugly from the mixture of rough throat and the distinct lack of any joy in its tone.

    Connor plops down on the stool left at the bar, the other one in pieces on the floor by the shattered glass, which was his small pot of succulents. He may not be reacting as badly as when Hank attacked him this morning, but he has a feeling that’s mainly because he's feeling very real pain right now that is forcing him into “disconnect from everything” mode, rather than “frenzied panic” mode.

    Someone comes in to check on his mouth because it’s still bleeding all over the place. It takes what feels like a few seconds, but Connor realizes that he doesn’t even know the gender of the person who looked over him, despite them giving him orders and him following them. He opens his mouth to take in a large breath of air, but there’s suddenly cotton in his mouth. Like, actual cotton lining his lips and cheeks. Who put that there?

    “Hey, you look confused.” Ritch states.

     **{** _If you can’t read what Connor’s supposed to be saying, I’ve put the normal spelling in the end notes._ :)  **}**

    “Ith there goin’ to be a thing herew?” Connor asks with a muffled voice, “Wlike, am I gonna haff to find thumwherew elth to thay-thday– th-th-th– go be at forw a whilew? Whilew you yook for cyues– cwu-cyl-cul–” Connor huffs loudly and shakes his head angrily. Fucking cotton all in his mouth making him sound like those cringey commercials of partial-humans for having a speech impediment.

    Ritch sighs and looks to the front door. “I don’t see why we would need to do an in depth investigation here. There are cameras in the hall, plenty of people who had to’ve heard this go down, and we saw the end of the fight ourselves, along how violent he–” he points to where Zlatko was dragged out of the building earlier “–was being. The only problems we’re gonna have is why you have an unidentified neko at your place.”

    “He wuth hurwt,” Connor slurs immediately, “an’ I coulw’n’ juth yeaf him for the nesh– neksh-nekthdy,” another huff, “ath-hooy to come awownd.”

    Ritch turns to Hank, “Is this true?” At the other’s slow nod, he takes a step to the side so he can address them both with another sigh. “I know how you are with your want of helping people, I’m just not used to you taking real action.” He sighs. There’s a lot of sighing. “So… If you two are both comfortable enough with it, I could put in the statement that you were staying over as a ‘pre-adoption home visit’ so there’s less of a chance of you–” he points at Hank “–being sent away to some shelter. Plus you have a decent explanation of why you were here in the first place.”

    There’s a slight hesitation, but Hank nods slowly anyway, trying to make eye contact with Connor. It doesn’t happen since his eyes don’t leave Ritch’s face.

    “And Thyath-thwl-thwathuko–” Connor gives up with a growl.

    “You tryin’ to say Zlatko?” Hank helpfully carifies.

    Connor nods quickly, “He wath juth one of thowth cway-crraythy foyrmewr own-ewrth we thee on theefee?” The author’s tone caked with displeasure and annoyance. His breathing is starting to go odd again, but nobody seems to have noticed because of the cotton field in his mouth, even as his brother’s head snaps to his direction.

    “Wait. Zlatko? As in, Zlatko Andronikov?”

    Hank’s face scrunches up. “Yea,” he answers cautiously, “You know who he is?”

    Ritch’s eyebrows try to kiss his hairline as he fully turns back to the nekojin. “We’ve only had people trying to track this guy down for months, now.” He shakes his head incredulously, “It’s not my case, but I can’t believe we actually got him. Especially like this. He’s usually much cleaner and precise.”

    “Well,” the older man leans on the counter with a small wince, “He used to be my handler before I took off. I used to be ‘one of his favorites’, as we’d call it, and not many get out of his place alive period, let alone his favorites. I’m just surprised he hadn’t finished me off sooner.” He casts a long glance towards Connor.

    This is no longer a good distraction. He needs to go before everything hits him right here, out in the open.

    “Tho I can thafely yock mythelf inthide my woom and haff a bweak down untily tomowoah afthernoon withouthd being bothe’ed?” God this cotton stuff is annoying, and now he’s just getting drool and blood everywhere again.

    Both people seem taken aback at his blunt honesty, despite the rough delivery. He notes that Hank gets over it real fast and turns his attention back to the police officer/detective/whatever-he-is in a genuine curiosity. It makes sense. He’s likely seen plenty of people that were in the same mental condition as he is now, and plenty more that were in worse states of being; of course he’s going to be more casual about this. Connor will have to thank him later for it if he’s still here.

    Ritch, on the other hand, balks at what Connor just suggested he do. It hits him then that while he was hiding all these weird problems from his parents and peers when growing up, he was also hiding them from his brother without really meaning to as a result. This is probably the first time he’s ever heard or seen Connor in such a state. He almost feels bad that he hasn’t ever told Ritch about this stuff, now. Thankfully, Ritch wisely doesn’t make any comments about it at the moment.

    Connor’s foot starts tapping rapidly.

    “I mean, we could always get other evidence and witnesses, first, so we don’t  _have_  to question you today, especially with the gauze in your mouth–”

    “ _Thank you_.” he says genuinely, turning to leave. “Maybe the day afther thomowoah or the day afther tha’. Just no’ thoonerw pwleath.”

    Connor speed walks into his room and locks the door behind him before anyone can respond. He barely gets himself into his official comfy clothes before he completely shuts down and falls on his bed.

•◊•◊•◊•◊•

    Connor doesn’t know when he fell asleep, and if he’s being honest, he wasn’t even aware he woke up again, either, until he’s alert and realizes that he’s been staring at his alarm clock for thirteen minutes now. It makes him question if he ever actually did fall asleep, or if he just disassociated hard enough that his body got the equivalent of rest, and that tricked his brain into making him think he was, at one point, resting.

    He doesn’t know. There’s too much and not enough going on in his head all at once. Maybe this is one of those lucid dreams? He’s had one of those before where he got up and ready for a meeting, only to wake up still in bed. That morning was a trip and a half.

    Connor decides he’s not in a dream as soon as the smell of eggs hits his nose. He can feel his heart quicken, and he has to somehow think through that and the mud that has filled his brain to figure out why. He would say fog like normal people tend to, but fog isn’t thick enough for what his head’s going through right now and Connor is certainly not normal.

     _Eggs_. Is that sausage, too?

    Fuck, Connor’s hungry. Like, it feels like someone’s using an ice cream scooper and is carving holes into his torso with how his body is cramping and twisting from hunger. Good to know his body can be just as dramatic as Connor can. The question is, though, does he go out and brave whatever Ritch has to say out there with the reward of food, or does he stay here and deal with the hunger until Ritch inevitably goes to lay down. The chance of him going home before Connor is up and about is slim to none, if how protective he used to be of him when they were younger says anything, along with the look on his face when Connor asked if he could break down in peace.

    His stomach settles his dilemma in the form of a sudden cramp. Drama queen. One would think he hasn’t gone a day or two without food before.

    He forces himself up, not appreciating how his head gets light and his vision gets dark when he’s upright. He’s still in his comfy clothes, and absentmindedly runs a hand through his messy hair, which undoubtedly did nothing if it didn’t worsen it. He doesn’t even bother with socks like he normally would when he wants to walk on the cold tiles of the kitchen area. He does, however, grab his comfort animal. It’s a stuffed dolphin he got from Sea World when he was young, and not even Ritch knows he still holds little Crystal for comfort during his bad days. He supposes that changes right now, because he isn’t going anywhere without her.

    It takes almost all of his strength to walk out of his room, but he manages it. He shuffles into the living area and instantly freezes when he catches sight of the figure at the stove. Connor doesn’t move for several minutes, just watching the man navigate his kitchen as if he’s been here for longer than just a day and a half. Or maybe it’s actually been longer now. Connor has no clue; he has no sense of time anymore.

    “Hey Connor. You hungry?” Hank asks, turning to face him.

    Connor nods slowly, gratefully.

    “Well, you’ve been locked in there for just over a day now, so I was gonna make you a small smoothie or something if you weren’t. Wanna take a seat for now while I finish mine up?” he asks kindly.

    Connor nods again, then situates himself on the single stool. He notes that all of the mess in the kitchen has been cleaned up and wonders if that was Ritch’s or Hank’s doing. He turns around to the couches and coffee table, where the only evidence of what happened before that he can see are a few stains on the floor.

    “Ritch insisted on helping clean this place up after they did pictures and shit for the police. He had to go do some stuff, but he should be back later.” Connor nods absently, so Hank continues, turning to him. “Want anything specific?”

    Hank flips his eggs into a sausage, bacon, cheese omelette, then slides it onto his plate. He starts eating it right there at the counter, unbothered by how hot the steaming food must be. Well, if Connor hadn’t had a good meal in days, possibly weeks, he wouldn’t be bothered by his food being a little hot.

    Connor nods and points to the omelette Hank made, and forces his voice to work. “Veggies.”

    “An omelette with vegetables? You want the meat in it too?” Connor shakes his head. “Alright.”

   He’s infinitely thankful that Hank has actual experience with dealing with shit shows similar to Connor. He seems to understand that Connor just doesn’t want to talk or have a conversation. Everything has been straight to the point or has been a yes or now question, perfect for nodding or shaking his head, with the exception of Connor clarifying that he wants veggies in his omelette. 

    Hank abandons the two-thirds of his eggs left to go open the fridge. He starts naming each vegetable off one by one, which isn’t all that much to name, and pauses to let Connor nod or shake his head. He sets out a red bell pepper, green pepper, onion, and some asparagus. When Hank asks if that’s it, Connor shakes his head no, and soon Hank has salsa and pepper jack cheese out as well.

    “Alright, I think I got the jist of what you’re wanting. Do you roast the vegetables first?”

    “Why?”

    Hank pauses and crunches his eyebrows together. “Uhh, because some people have a set thing they like and–”

    “Why stay? He’s gone.” Connor clarifies.

    Realization dawns Hank’s features. He pauses in taking a bite of his own meal and turns to face the author. His face seems… open. He’s read about this in books and the few fanfictions he reads, but he never quite understood what that meant. Everyone always has some kind of mask up. No one would be able to survive if they didn’t, especially in recent days. Yet here Hank is, looking simply open. It’s nice, if not extremely confusing.

    “Connor,” he sighs out, “look, I know we got off to a really rough start, but you’re not anything like I thought you would be that first night. You helped me out when I was in a real bad spot, and that meant a lot as soon as I could get my own head to understand that you weren’t gonna do anything to me or force anything on me.

    “So, now I want my turn to show you. Call me selfish, but you’re in a real rough spot right now, and I wanna prove that I can be a decent person when I need to be, when I want to be.” Hank drops his eyes to his sock-covered feet. “I’m sorry for not believing you had no ulterior motives until this huge mess, and I’m sorry that I’m hard to get along with.” Hank looks back up to meet Connor’s eyes.

    “I’m just an old neko that’s seen some shit in his life. And I don’t apologize often– people don’t usually deserve it from me– but I’m also going to apologize for anything I may do in the future, because I don’t know if you remember, but we agreed to play this out like I was some kind of test adoption or whatever, so I’ve gotta stick around for at least another week or two or else it’ll be kinda suspicious. I’m gonna slip up again, without a single doubt, so I’m doing what I can now because now I know you’re just the kind of stupid and crazy to help out a fuck up like me.” He smiles through the last sentence as if he finds it genuinely funny that he sees himself as a fuck up, and that Connor would want to help him.

    Connor doesn’t know what to do with this kind of thing. He doesn’t get reassurance or compliments very often, and gets apologies even less often. He gets constructive criticism and quick, little “sorry”s for bumping into him from his friends all the time, but it’s not the same. It makes him almost uncomfortable hearing an apology for an action that makes perfect sense and was inevitable in hindsight, especially with the new knowledge that apologies are rare from Hank.

    He vaguely remembers agreeing to letting Hank stay under the adoption alibi. He didn’t know it would be for a week minimum, but with how the nekojin is acting about it, he’s not overly worried about it being too stressful. He thinks they can actually move along and coexist fine enough, since Hank seems to want to make this work.

    “I’m just not an asshole.” Connor eventually defects with hunched shoulders and downcasted eyes.

    “ A lot of times, Connor,” his genuine tone forces his eyes up from the counter, “even  _that’s_  hard to come by. And sometimes that’s all that’s needed to change lives.” Hank straightens up, turning back to his food and shoveling a large bite into his mouth. “Now then,” he continues, voice slightly muffled with food, “Do you cook the vegetables first?”

    Connor nods his head and silently guides Hank through making a rough version of his Veggie Scramble. After it’s done, he lets the calico have a few bites, and he decides there’s too much “garden” in it for him. That’s alright. The veggie scramble isn’t for everyone, after all.

    After Connor finishes his meal and Hank has some milk (“Don’t fucking tease me for being a cat who likes milk with his breakfast.” “Wasn’t going to.” he says with a smile), the nekojin relocates to the couch, and the artist escapes to his room for another nap with Crystal in his arms. 

•◊•◊•◊•◊•

    This time when Connor wakes up, he knows exactly when he fell asleep and immediately knows when he wakes up, which is a strange thing to take pride in, now that he thinks about it. Oh well, it’s the little things that matter, especially during bad days like recently. A glance to the gold filtering through his windows gives away that it’s either close to sunset or it’s just past sunrise. On his side table is a glass of water and a small bowl of fruit, along with a note written in his brother’s handwriting. He reads it while munching on some watermelon chunks and grapes.

     _I went shopping, now you have new stools and plenty of snacks to munch on, since I know you don’t have much of an appetite on your bad days. Thank you for trusting me with that. Work has me busy, you helped a lot. Thank you. Please get well and take your time.   - Best Bro_

_P.S. I called Markus and Luther for you. They don’t know any details, and they shouldn’t ask unless you tell them first, but they know you’ll be taking a short break until you call them._

    Connor manages to force himself out of bed to go look at these new stools he supposedly has. He eyes Crystal laying on the bed, and after some contemplation, he decides to bring her. Hank already saw her yesterday, and he doubts Ritch would really care if he carried around a stuffed animal. That is, if he’s even in the house.

    He steps out of his room, bringing the now empty bowl with him, and notes that it takes less energy than last time he did so. His new stools are made of light wood and have a green cushion on top, rather than the plain, polished oak his last ones were. He places his bowl in the sink, then walks over to squish the stool seat. It’s very squishy.

    “Soft, ain’t it?” Hank asks. Connor nods and he continues. “If I weren’t so old, I’d be sitting there instead of over here on this couch, if I’m gonna be honest.”

    The corner of Connor’s lips rise up just a bit, “You’re not  _that_  old.”

    “Nah, not really, but I feel like I am.” Hank settles back down into the couch with what appears to be one of his own books.

    “Me too. Sometimes.”

    Connor quietly wanders over and sits. He notices that his painting stuff was picked up and cleaned, but wasn’t moved from the coffee table. Connor stares at it for a long time, noting that all his supplies have been thoroughly cleaned. He tries to find the energy to finish the last few strokes on that simpler painting he never finished, but he gives up a few minutes in. Hank must have noticed his intense staring.

    “And this is what you do all day? You just sit here and mess with art n’ shit?”

    Connor shakes his head. “I write mostly. Or read. Or sit and stare into space while music plays.”

    Hank grunts, “That seems like a boring life.”

    “It is.” he answers instantly, “But I’m a coward and I like safe and boring. And it gets me some money, so…”

    A few moments of silence pass, and Connor finally looks over to Hank for the first time. Yep, he’s reading Connor’s second book.

    “Are you enjoying the book?”

    Hank hums and nods. “Surprisingly so. I don’t know what I was expecting when I saw the cover and read the summary, but I certainly wasn’t expecting it to be genuine.”

    Connor tilts his head to the side like a confused dog, “Genuine?”

    “Yeah. The cover has the main character as the nekojin, and the summary describes him as this kick ass pirate who saves people and shit, but I just kinda figured it was to catch the clout of this kinda stuff that started up back then, and the actual book itself was gonna be the normal ‘this is the summary of the first chapter, and the rest is just this dude being a slave’, y’know? I started reading it only ‘cause Ritch basically forced me to, but I’m pleasantly surprised.”

    ~ _That traitor_ ~, Connor wants to say out loud, but doesn’t.

    “I’m glad.”

    Hank’s brows furrow and he stares at the other questioningly, “You’re glad? For what? Reading one of the thousands of books you have stashed away?”

    He shakes his head, “It’s only hundreds, and you didn’t look at the author, did you?”

    That makes Hank check the author on the spine immediately. His expression shifts from confused to downright shocked in a flash.

    “ _You_  wrote this? Mister ‘ _I swear I’m not an activist_ ’?”

    Connor blushes in embarrassment. He hasn’t heard anything like that in years.

    “It was actually an accident, believe it or not. This was my second book. I was still in high school when I self-published it, and back then I never payed any attention to news or anything like that. All I knew was that there were no books featuring a partial-human for some reason, despite them being such a large number of our population, so I wrote that.” He waves his hand at the book in Hank’s hand. “It’s still my top seller of all time, even if it isn’t being sold anymore.”

    Hank nods as if he understand the true extent of what happened. “Yeah, that clout was there, even if you didn’t know it.”

    Connor smirks, “Someone bought 200 copies of that book just to burn them all in a huge bonfire.”

    “Holy shit, really?”

    “Yeah. Got tagged in it and everything. So much money just to make some stupid point. Sometimes I wonder if they realize how much money I made off of that, or how much paper they wasted.”

    “Probably not. Damned rich people.”

    Connor nods his agreement. “I’m sure you’ve had your share of rich people too, though. Less pleasant.”

    Hank nods, this time, “Yeah, but not nearly as bad as others. I was a favorite, so I wasn’t really touched. I’ve been treated worse by the poor, really.”

    Connor fidgets, trying to decide whether or not he should ask his next question. The look Hank gives him somewhat forces his hand.

    ”What does being a favorite mean?”

    Hank sighs. “It basically means that specific partial-human is rare.” Hank hums in thought, “So, like, we partial-humans kind of follow the same genetic laws that our corresponding animals do. Two nekojins can have children, just like two inujins can, but a neko and inu can’t have one together. It just doesn’t work. But there’s also the genetic laws within the animals themselves.

    “Like, if a poodle and a golden retriever have puppies, you get a litter of golden-doodles, yeah?” Connor nods. “And the same thing happens when a pair of inujins of those species get together. Their child is a golden-doodle. So on so forth.”

    Connor can’t be patient any longer. “Why were you a favorite?”

    Hank takes a deep breath. “For every three thousand or so female calicos, there is roughly one male. And that’s when the cat is having a whole litter of kittens, not just one baby at a time.” Hank gestures to his ears and tail, “I am the first male calico nekojin anyone’s reportedly seen in over a century.”

    It seems like that’s the end of Hank’s explanation, and Connor can’t even believe what he just heard. He didn’t even realize that there were so few male calico cats in the first place. He forces himself to relax into the couch as he processes this. If anyone on the street knows about this calico ratio and sees Hank, the odds are they’re gonna want to start something, whether it’s trouble or just extensive, possibly invasive questioning. He has no clue how many people actually know the ratio, or how many would actually approach them, but it’s a wonder that Hank wasn’t picked up by anyone while he was homeless.

    “I attracted crowds,” Hank continues abruptly, “and Zlatko wanted me unscarred and uninjured to maximize monetization, so no one was allowed to touch me, and I got fed  _real_  well compared to the other partial-humans there,” he leans back into the couch, “a lot of those partial-humans hated me for how I got ‘pampered’. I hated myself for a while there because of it, too. But I soon realized that I wasn’t exactly getting pampered.

    “While I was out on the streets, two different people tried to take me home or what not, and the third was successful after darting me. The only reason those three shitheads were even able to get me down was because I was still drugged from the food that asshole shoved down my throat.”

    “And then you woke up in yet another strange place, with yet another strange person promising something too good to be true.” Connor finishes.

    Hank nods slowly, silently.

    “Well, you’re welcome to stay here as long as you like. As I said before, I’m not trapping you here, so if you want to go, you can. But you’re also not a burden here, either.”

    Hank looks at him with wide eyes and raised eyebrows, but Connor continues as if he doesn’t see his expression.

“Although, if you plan on staying for more than a month, I expect you to help pack up.” Connor plows right through Hank trying to argue something, “I was thinking about moving out of this place anyway– it’s never been quite right for me– but this…” he trails off, trying to find the word.

    “Shitstorm?” Hank finishes with one of those  _I’m actually really affected by what happened but I’m going to try my damnedest to not let it show by playing the entire thing off as a joke_  smirks. Connor is very familiar with those smirks.

    “Yea. This,  _shitstorm_  kinda put the nail in the coffin for me.”

    “Well I would damn hope so.” Hank smiles, seemingly genuinely amused this time, to Connor’s surprise. “Yeah yeah, count me in with the packing if I haven’t clawed my way outta here and you haven’t booted me out yet.” He amicably pats the author’s shoulder. “Now, I don’t know if you’ve realized, but it’s getting late, and I, for one, want dinner.”

    Hank places a bookmark in Connor’s book then gets off the couch with a large sigh. He makes his way over to the kitchen and starts digging around in the fridge as if he belongs there– and maybe he does belong there in Connor’s apartment. He was right about Hank, though. It may have been a really rocky start, but Connor thinks they’ll get along well enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Is there going to be a thing here? Like, am I gonna have to find somewhere else to stay-stay– st-s-st– go be at for a while? While you look for clues– clu-cl-clu–”  
> “He was hurt. And I couldn’t just leave him for the nex– nex-next asshole to come around.”  
> “And Zlak-Zl-Zlakto” Nod at Hank. “He was just one of those cra-crazy former owners we see on TV?”  
> “So I can safely lock myself in my room and have a break down until tomorrow afternoon without being bothered?”  
> “Thank you. Maybe the day after tomorrow or the day after that, just no sooner please.”  
> \-----  
>  **A/N:** Hiya! Look who’s finally back!! I’m so so so sorry it took me so long to get this chapter out, I’ve just gotten busy lately is all, then I couldn’t get in the right mindset to write this chapter and ended up deleting and rewriting everything except the fight itself, like, five times now I think? So it’s been a blast 🙃 So thank you all for being patient with me! I hope to have the next chapter of The Drift Between Us (my Hankcon/Reed900 Pacific Rim!AU) in a week or two (if my schedule and ADHD will allow me), so there’s that to look forward to if you happen to follow me! Thank you all so much for reading, and I hope you enjoyed this chapter!! 💕💖  
>  **P.S. Happy Birthday Connor!!**

**Author's Note:**

> Come yell at me on my [Tumblr](https://dat-fandom-losertown.tumblr.com/) and [Twitter](https://twitter.com/FandomLosertown) too!


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